


Drunken Dancing

by mokuyoubi



Series: A Great and Gruesome Height [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Blow Jobs, Dancing, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Kissing, Established Relationship, Fluff, From both of them, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Sickening Domesticity, Smut, Top Will Graham, because let's be real, so fluffy you could choke on it, these two get off on that like whoa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:56:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7247512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the label--written to be set in The Netherlands after A Great and Gruesome Height, but can definitely be read as a standalone.</p><p>  <i>Will meets him at the door with arms thrown around his neck, face in his throat, and a rumbling hum of greeting. “Welcome home.” </i></p><p>  <i>“Indeed.” Hannibal is indulgently amused, maneuvering Will under one arm to lay down the groceries. When his eyes light on the wine bottle, he says, “I see I have some catching up to do.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunken Dancing

Hannibal’s out getting the ingredients for a stuffed loin roast, and Will’s gotten better at picking wines, but he still has no idea whether Hannibal would prefer Chianti, Rioja, or Cab Sauv, so he just brings them all up from the cellar. 

 

Then, of course, he figures he should let them breathe, or whatever. He picks the most likely, or maybe it’s just that he likes the label for the Cabernet, with a woman in a toga holding up a bunch of grapes like she’s offering a toast. 

 

The cork smells of cigars and vanilla when he opens it, and Will pours himself a small glass. It’s silky smooth and chocolatey on the palate, and he pours a little more. By the time Hannibal arrives home, he’s halfway through the bottle.

 

Will meets him at the door with arms thrown around his neck, face in his throat, and a rumbling hum of greeting. “Welcome home.” 

 

“Indeed.” Hannibal is indulgently amused, maneuvering Will under one arm to lay down the groceries. When his eyes light on the wine bottle, he says, “I see I have some catching up to do.”

 

Will dutifully fills Hannibal’s glass, and tops his own off, both quite generous pours. “I thought it would go well with dinner.”

 

“And indeed it would have,” Hannibal grins, when Will clinks the crystal together. “Though the Viña el Pisón will go quite nicely.”

 

Will hoists himself up on the countertop to watch as Hannibal scrubs down the potatoes, skins them, and begins to slice them in thin sticks. “Are you making  _ fries? _ ” His incredulous tone is pitched a bit higher than usual. He’s blaming it on the wine.

 

“They’re pomme frites,” Hannibal says, unruffled, and takes a long sip of his wine.

 

“Fries.” Will grins and leans in to hiss the word in Hannibal’s ear. 

 

Hannibal swats at him with the flat of his knife and goes back to work. “Can I trust you to prepare the spinach without maiming yourself?”

 

“Maaaaaybe.” Will hops off the counter, busking his cheek against Hannibal’s as he passes. “I’m not sure the finished product is going to be up to your standards, but…”

 

Despite his concerns, the spinach turns out fine. Not as pretty as Hannibal would have done it, but it still tastes amazing, with the onion and butter and heavy cream. The  _ pomme frites _ crispy and carmalised in honey tossed in at the last minute. 

 

True to his word, Hannibal has done is best attain Will’s level of intoxication, finishing the rest of the Cab Sauv in one huge glass while they prepare dinner, then starting in on the Rioja. Whether it’s because he’s feeling pleasantly buzzed or it’s just a good pairing, it tastes amazing with the tenderloin. It’s berry sweet with an oaky spice, and mineral tang that cuts through the richness of the meal. 

 

Will can’t stop drinking it, great mouthfuls after every bite, moaning in pleasure. He catches Hannibal smiling absently at him, looking thoroughly smitten, and blushes at his plate, snapping, “What?”

 

“Just look at how far you’ve come, from the man who showed up at a dinner party with the most expensive bottle of wine he could find, labouring under the misapprehension that exorbitant cost was indicative of quality.”

 

Will flips him off and mutters  _ blow me _ around his mouthful of tenderloin. 

 

Hannibal gives him a look of smouldering promise and continues on, “And now, selecting three excellent pairings for this evening’s meal.”

 

“Did I?” Will asks, leaning towards the island, chair tipped precariously as he snags the final bottle. “Guess I’ll just have to taste for myself.”

 

Peppery and faintly acidic, the chianti brings out a whole different flavour profile, enhancing the herbs Hannibal used to season the tenderloin and a lingering floral note. Or maybe he’s just drunk. He laughs once and at Hannibal’s smitten and slightly unfocussed smile, dissolves into giggles.

 

Will gets to his feet, taking both Hannibal’s hands in his own and pulling him to his feet. “And look how far you’ve come,” he says, “getting drunk on three bottles of your precious wine collection like throwing back shots.”

 

“A small price to pay, for your happiness.”

 

“Jesus Christ, you’re such a sap,” Will says, but he’s grinning. Out of all the ridiculous gestures Hannibal has made, three bottles of wine is easily the least of them, the most mundane, and still it warms Will to the tips of his toes.

 

“The dishes,” Hannibal protests, when Will leads him into the living room. His iPod has been playing all night, louder here close to the speakers. It’s some grandiose folksie, indie thing with strings and trumpets, and Will doesn’t think it’s in English, but he can’t say for sure the way the vocalist just mumbles through the lyrics. 

 

But it’s nice, slow and soothing with a sort of irrepressible, incongruous cheerfulness to it, and Will’s feeling magnanimous tonight, so he doesn’t give Hannibal any shit over his pretentious taste in music for once.

 

“I’ll take care of them in the morning,” Will says. He steps closer, bringing Hannibal’s arms around his waist and lifting his own to drape them over Hannibal’s shoulders. Hannibal catches on quickly, arms tightening until there’s no space left between them, Will’s head rested on his chest as they begin to move together in a slow, shuffling turn around the room.

 

Is it possible they’ve never done this before? Will considers what pleasure it would bring Hannibal to dress him up in one of his fancy suits and parade him around the dance floor. What once might have terrified him now makes him smile in pleasant anticipation--not for the pleasure he’ll get from it, but that which Hannibal will.

 

Will sighs and relaxes into Hannibal’s hold as the song changes. Hannibal makes no effort to change the pace of their meandering dance and Will loses himself in the rhythm of it, in time with the alcohol-sluggish beat of his heart. 

 

The diffused light and the dreamy music along with the wine makes him feel like they’re floating. Beneath his cheek, Hannibal’s chest rises and falls. Will slides his hands up into the long hair at the back of his neck, lifting his head as his fingertips press gently against the base of Hannibal’s skull, urging him down.

 

They meet in a wet, open-mouthed kiss. Hannibal’s lips are slick and taste of honey and the dark pit fruits of the wine. He sucks Will’s bottom lip between his own, teeth snagging on the sensitive skin of the inside, tingling hot from the pain. Will sweeps his own tongue across the same spot to keep the sharp edge of it.

 

Hannibal’s hands smooth down to the small of his back, fingers working between denim and bare skin to cup Will’s ass and give a squeeze. Will grins into the kiss and rolls his hips forward. “You’re getting pretty fresh there, Doctor Lecter,” he whispers, nipping at Hannibal’s lip.

 

“Are you complaining?” Hannibal asks, parting Will’s cheeks, fingering between.

 

Will gasps, hips thrusting forward and then back, Hannibal’s touch finding sensitive skin. “Not complaining, but this sort of behaviour isn’t really likely to convince me to dance with you in a public setting.”

 

Hannibal’s smile is all sharp teeth and crinkled eyes. “What can I say?” He bends his head to suck the mottled bruises of Will’s throat, drawing a bone deep moan from him at the mingled pleasure and pain tingling down his spine. “If you were to dance with me in public, I would be the envy of all present--I would have to make clear my ownership.”

 

“Your  _ ownership _ ?” Will supposes his outrage would be more believable if he weren’t half-laughing, half-moaning under Hannibal’s mouth. He grabs a handful of hair and yanks him back up, catching him open-mouthed and messy. Hannibal’s finger circles the tight ring of muscle around his hole and pushes--not quite enough to sink inside, just the promising tease of pressure. His body clenches in anticipation.

 

Hannibal hums his agreement, biting down hard enough on Will’s jaw to bruise. There’ll be no covering that, and they both know it. Will brings their dancing to a halt and pulls free of Hannibal’s embrace. With both hands on his chest, he sends Hannibal sprawling back against the sofa, half lying back over the arm.

 

Will crouches over him, jerking open the fastenings of his slacks with rough, imprecise movements. “I’ll show you ownership,” he mutters, and pulls down the waistband of Hannibal’s boxers under his balls. 

 

He goes down on him without preamble, sloppy and wildly uncoordinated from the wine, but enthusiastic. From the way Hannibal’s hips jerk, shoving deep down his throat, Will’s guessing he has no complaints. He goes from half-hard to rock-hard in no time flat under Will’s ministrations--sucking for all he’s worth, tongue pressed firm against the underside, swallowing around the head. 

 

When he draws back, Will grins at his handiwork. Hannibal’s hands gone white from his death grip on the couch cushions, hair falling in a tangled mess over his face, cock spit-wet and angry red curving hard towards his stomach. 

 

Will leaves him lying there to grab the olive oil, left out on the counter. “Fucking ownership,” he says when he comes back, voice  _ ruined _ from Hannibal’s cock. He pours it in his palm and fists himself, letting it drip all over Hannibal’s trousers just to make a point. 

 

And Hannibal, he doesn’t even bother trying to look annoyed, just pushes his pants and boxers off altogether, kicking them off the end of the sofa and spreading his legs open wide. “I never meant to imply that it doesn’t go both ways,” he says, smirking. Will rewards him with a hard, hungry kiss, off-centre and sloppy.

 

He leans back to watch as he guides himself to Hannibal’s hole. It’s slow going, Hannibal’s body unstretched, opening for him bit by bit until he gives and Will sinks in. He has to take a few deep breaths, everything fuzzy around the edges, forehead pressed to Hannibal’s. Will can feel the fine tremours in Hannibal’s arms, hands holding tight to Will’s shoulders when he begins to move again.

 

The alcohol has made him drowsy and lethargic. Will takes his time, fucking into Hannibal with deep rolling thrusts. Hannibal meets him with desperate rocking hips and clinging lips. His mouth opens for Will as his body, letting Will lick into him and sucking on his tongue with a low groan when Will finds just the right angle. “I hope you’re not expecting anything fancy,” Will mumbles, mouthing over Hannibal’s collarbone. It’s frankly a miracle he’s gotten this far without passing out.

 

Hannibal grunts and arches his back. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.” Will huffs in laughter and Hannibal echoes the sound back at him. He strains up for another kiss, one hand between them to stroke his own cock. Will tangles their fingers together, spreading the oil and easing the way.

 

Will’s muscles are burning, thighs working to keep up the rough thrusts, ass clenching when he shoves in hard. But it’s worth it for the obscene sounds their bodies make in the coupling, wet slapping, and Hannibal’s rumbling moans. He’s trying to hold off, let Hannibal go first, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can last. He’s taken off-guard when Hannibal comes, and he’s guessing Hannibal feels the same, the way his eyes fly open in surprise, mouth going slack against Will’s as his cock pulses between them.

 

“Fucking  _ finally _ ,” Will groans in relief, pounding harder, his rhythm faltering. Hannibal answers with a bite at the base of Will’s throat, one of his favourite places to leave a mark in his ever expanding chain of bruises and Will’s body jerks involuntarily. 

 

It goes without saying how fucked up it is, that he’s begun to respond to the violence of Hannibal’s teeth breaking his skin by coming immediately and intensely. Somehow Will can’t find it within him to care. The hot-cold ripples of pain, chased by the rush of endorphins see him through the last few spasms as he pumps Hannibal full of his cum. 

 

Will collapses against Hannibal’s chest, dizzy and lightheaded, and on the edge of sleep already, limbs so heavy he can’t even consider moving. “I hope  _ you’re _ not intending for me to carry you upstairs this evening,” Hannibal murmurs, mimicking Will’s earlier tone. His lips brush kisses over Will’s forehead as he speaks. “I can’t feel my legs.”

 

Slinging his arms around Hannibal’s shoulders and nuzzling into the hollow of his throat, Will lets his eyes flutter closed. “I’ll move in a minute,” he mumbles. He’s going to regret this at some point in the near future, but right now he’s warm, cosy, and perfectly sated, so he gives in to the tugging undertow of sleep.


End file.
